


Thunder

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Comfort, Comfort No Hurt, Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Cute Sherlock Holmes, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Life at 221B Baker Street, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Establishing Relationship, F/M, Feel-good, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Lightning - Freeform, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Phobias, Pining, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Sleeping Together, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: Sherlock never knew that his flatmate Y/N----whom he's developed quite a crush on---is afraid of thunderstorms.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Done for a request :-)
> 
> Sorry for late updates just in general, I'm writing a novel so most of the time I have to write goes to that lol

__________

_**"Cause I knew I was in love with you** _

_**When we sat in silence"** _

_**\- 'Silence', by Before You Exit** _   
  
  


__________

The air had been heavy and thick with moisture all day, so it came as no surprise when a mass of cumulonimbus clouds rolled around at about mid-afternoon. Like a tsunami of concrete, they had smothered the pleasant September sunshine by three, and hardened into a hefty wall of moody grey by four.

Then the rain began.

And it didn't stop.

Sherlock watched with mild amusement as chaos ensued.

He'd been called out of his comfortable, _dry_ apartment by Lestrade to solve a case said man had claimed to be 'unsolvable'. Predictably, the case turned out to be very solvable---or it would have been, had half the evidence not just been washed away into a storm drain. 

Sherlock could have been at home right now, playing a board game with Y/N, or doing a science experiment with Y/N, or making ginger snaps with Y/N and then eating them---

But he's not, and as a pellet of rain wriggled its way down his neck, Sherlock still feels---understandably---a little nettled. At Greg Lestrade for dragging him out here, _and_ at the idiocy that is Scotland Yard for _needing_ him to be dragged out here.

Not that he turned out to be much use.

The corner of his lip quirked as he regarded one of the technicians chasing a flock of evidence labels down the street. The little yellow cards were being whisked away by a torrent of water that was rapidly becoming a small stream down one side of the road.

Another technician, or it might have been someone from forensics---it's hard to tell when everyone's dressed in sodden disposable overalls---was desperately trying to cover what was left of the scene with a sheet of tarpaulin.

Sherlock almost regretted refusing to don one of those suits himself; the wearable plastic-bags looked ridiculous, but would have kept the rain off. He can already feel it seeping into the wool of his coat, the moisture probably flushing his shirt with dark bruises as if he'd been thoroughly beaten up.

The man attempting to save what little was left of the evidence looked young, despite his screwed-up frown of anguish ageing him ten or so years. Probably a trainee, or some sort of student, Sherlock guessed lazily. The trainee-or-perhaps-student stopped to wipe his plastered-down hair from his face with the back of his hand, then resumed spreading out the tarp with admirable determination. The wind kept whipping up the corners, though, the weather trying to bunch the whole thing up like a sheet of paper and hurl it down the street.

Sherlock almost pitied him, and would have helped had he not known the exercise to be futile; they might as well just summon the bioremediation specialists and call it a day. 

Instead, Sherlock approached him, having to raise his voice over the thrashing rain:

"Just leave it, there's no point," he hoped the man could hear the apologetic softness to his tone through the rain.

Having to squint to see who had addressed him, the man yelled back: "Are you sure? Some of it might---"

Sherlock shook his head. "It won't. It's just going to get worse." He pointed to those towering clouds roiling about above their heads like angry, overweight spirits, and said simply: "Storm."

The man followed Sherlock's gloved finger to the heavens, glancing for as long as he dared. When he met Sherlock's eyes again his own were red from being pelted with rain. "Okay," he conceded with a sigh, shoulders sagging with defeat.

Sherlock felt sorry for him again, so he handed over a piece of information he'd been holding onto. His original plan had been to use it himself, but this sodden kid just starting out in the world looked like he could use it more. "Get a warrant for the victim's apartment. You'll find more there anyway."

The trainee's shining cheeks widened in a grateful smile, and Sherlock's phone vibrated urgently a few times in his inside pocket.

Shielding the vulnerable rectangle from the rain with the breast of his coat, he tried to make out the text bubble's contents as they became distorted with water droplets:

**_Could you come home, please?_ **

**_\- Y/N_ **

A knot of anxiety tied itself about Sherlock's throat and he turned to the direction of home, but something caught his arm. He turned to see the technician looking at him inquisitively.

"Aren't you coming to the victim's apartment?"

How could he worry about some silly crime at a time like this? "No, it's all yours." 

...

The taxi Sherlock caught to drive him back to Baker Street took entirely too long to pull up beside him, then entirely too long to set off on its journey.

As soon as he was encapsulated within the safety of the car, he'd slipped his phone from his pocket again. It took several attempts to unlock it, his hands being so waterlogged---even with the gloves---that the device didn't recognise him. After a few unsuccessful jabs at the screen, the blasted thing locked him out for thirty seconds.

For each one that ticked by, a metaphorical stitch-picker unravelled an inch of Sherlock's nerves.

Why does Y/N want him to come home? What had happened while he'd been out? Why hadn't her message been clearer? It gave him nothing to work with---nothing to deduce---its simplicity could be interpreted in so many ways---

Maybe someone has died and she wants him to come home so she can deliver the bad news in person?

Is she tied up somewhere, and had to spell out the entire thing with well-placed jabs of her pinkie finger, hands restrained and mouth duct-taped shut?

Is she in such terrible pain she doesn't have the strength to type any more than a halting, short sentence?

Sherlock told himself to shut up, then, his stomach coiling in on itself painfully. He'd bought a takeaway cheese and tomato toastie from Costa for lunch and was now wishing he hadn't.

If it was an emergency, Y/N would have called, wouldn't she?

There's probably nothing wrong at all, the logical part of his brain tried to soothe. After all, _Sherlock_ hasbegged _Y/N_ to bunk off work hundreds of times to amuse him when he's moping around the flat. 

He's asked her to come home just because he wanted someone to talk to. 

Or because those chemicals he needed for an experiment had finally been delivered, and he wanted Y/N to be there to witness what he planned to do with them. 

Once he'd asked her to skip work just because he was having a particular craving for Caramel Nibbles and wanted her to pick some up from the shop on her way home.

Perhaps _Y/N_ is just bored? Or wants someone to talk to? Sherlock posited to himself hopefully, trying to ease the clenching sensation in his stomach. If she does just want someone to talk to, that would be okay. Nice even.

As soon as the insolent little timer dropped to a zero, Sherlock fervently wiped his hands on whatever dry parts of his trousers he could find, and pressed the pad of a finger to the screen. His phone granted him access, this time, and he hurriedly tapped out:

**_Why?_ **

**_-SH_ **

There was a long pause, while he waited for the reply, Sherlock's right leg bounced rhythmically up and down, his breaths and damp clothes fogging up the windows. Due to the darkened sky, the street lamps had switched on earlier than usual, and Sherlock watched their orange glow slide by through the murk of condensation.

His phone buzzed.

**_Just come home pls._ **

**_\- Y/N_ **

_..._

When Sherlock burst through the front door, he found Y/N sitting in the hall.

Not on the _floor_ , she was perched in one of the chairs that occupy the space at the end of the corridor. Mrs Hudson had put them there to make it feel less empty, but it hadn't worked; they just made that nook of the building look slightly spooky. It's a bit like a room from a doll's house; all set up for guests that will never come. 

In all the time Sherlock has lived at 221B, he'd never seen a person sit there before.

No one except Y/N, at this very moment.

Sherlock crossed the long, narrow space between him and his flatmate before the front door had even clicked shut behind him. "What's the matter?" His eyes raked over Y/N's form, which seemed to slacken at his arrival, a grateful smile curving the lower half of her face. That's a good sign, surely?

"Nothing's the matter," she said less than convincingly, but as far as Sherlock could tell, it was true, at least in part. She didn't look _okay_ but she didn't look hurt either. Nervous, yes; her face as though it had been drained of most of its colour. Worried but not afraid. She had her knees drawn up below her chin and headphones lodged firmly over her ears, but she removed them, now, giving Sherlock her full attention.

Her full attention usually makes him feel good, like someone was rubbing two sticks together in his chest and had finally succeeded in producing a spark---but he didn't revel in it, today, because why isn't Y/N meeting his eyes?

"What's the matter?" He repeated again, more firmly this time.

Y/N had begun wrapping the wire around her headphones methodologically. "Nothing. I just wanted you to come home."

"Because...?"

"I'm just bored." Her voice is higher than usual. Sort of taught and thin like a rope about to snap.

Sherlock didn't like it. Carefully: "You called me away from solving a crime because you were...bored?" Not that he minded. A drip of water rolled down his forehead and he had to blink it away from his eye. If Y/N hadn't have summoned him he would have left anyway.

Y/N squared her shoulders, jabbing an accusing finger into the air between them. " _You_ do that to _me_ all the time." She looks more like Y/N, now. As if she'd withered whilst alone, and then been revitalised by the presence of another human being.

This dumped another dose of confusion onto Sherlock's brain, and his curiosity flared up all over again. This is Y/N. The same person who locked herself in her room for two days just so she could plough through a novel series; and now suddenly she takes issue with a few hours by alone? 

"Yes, but _you_ never do. So why today?"

"Maybe I'm just more bored than I usually am." She dared a glance at Sherlock's face, and tried to hold his scrutinous stare. The battle was short and inevitable.

Regretfully, Sherlock softened it, softened everything about himself. "You can tell me." He almost moved to take the chair across from her, but stopped himself, not wanting to transfer his dampness onto Mrs Hudson's furniture. 

"Tell you what?" The quiver in Y/N's voice betrayed the fact that she knew exactly what he was talking about. She's clutching a secret to her chest, making sure her hands hide every inch.

Why doesn't she trust Sherlock to take a peek at it?

Something like hurt ghosted over his expression and Y/N ran a hand through her hair.

At least she doesn't appear to _like_ keeping the secret from him. But still; the obvious lack of trust has wounded him more than he'd care to admit.

"There's nothing wrong. Really," she assured, a bit more convincingly, now. She's not so sallow anymore, and looked Sherlock's drenched form up and down properly for the first time.

He looks like he's been standing under a waterfall for a while, a little pool of moisture collecting around his soggy oxfords.

"You're soaked! You should dry your hair or you'll catch a cold."

"Colds are purely viral infections, you can't actually get them from _being_ cold."

Y/N gave him a look, and the corner of his lip twitched. 

"But I see your point. Can I use your hairdryer?"

"Of course."

Sherlock waited for Y/N to rise and lead the way to wherever she'd left it, but she didn't.

A few seconds passed where the only sound was the rain beating against the front door as if it wanted to be let in.

"Aren't you going to show me where it is?" He knows where it is, he sees it every time he enters Y/N's bedroom, which is a lot. 

Sherlock often takes his work up there---preferring to have company---and sits by Y/N as she watches television, sneaking glances at the screen, which is pleasingly larger than the one downstairs, whenever he feels like it. Y/N's room is nicer than downstairs in general, occupying the entirety of the top floor---besides a squat little bathroom in one corner---and is situated just about high enough for the view to look out over the top of the opposite buildings. The space is light and airy and, usually, one of 221B's inhabitant's favourite places to spend their time.

So why does she seem so reluctant to go up there now? Or to even enter their own apartment?

"It's in my room, you'll see it as you walk in."

"Are you planning to stay down here?" Sherlock quipped, but the good-natured chuckle died in his throat.

Y/N had her bottom lip between the rocky edges of her teeth and was chewing the already slightly raw flesh, the gap between her eyebrows creased like a stitch pulled too tight. "No, of course not."

She stood uncertainty, and there was a strange moment where they both seemed to be waiting for the other to lead the way.

Seeing that Sherlock was obviously not going to, Y/N sighed and eased past him; carefully as not to touch his dripping coat.

Sherlock just watched her as she ascended the stairs; checking for a limp, a twinge of pain, anything that might explain her skittishness; but found nothing. He didn't know if this eased his fears or just worried him more. Both, probably, and his nerves tangled themselves into a confused bunch.

...

Y/N did not cease acting strange all evening. If anything, it grew worse; her strangeness set the whole flat into an alien sense of disarray that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. It was as though he'd entered a parallel dimension by accident somewhere along the way home, and was now in a reality that was a lot _like_ his own, but definitely not the one he knew.

It's as if Y/N and himself had swapped...something.

Personalities?

Roles?

Something.

After changing into some dry clothes and giving his hair a quick blast with Y/N's hairdryer, Sherlock found her in the exact place he'd left her; perched on the sofa, her eyes glazed and far-off.

To restore some sort of natural order to things---and in an effort to settle Y/N's obvious but mysterious bout of anxiety---Sherlock suggested they both watch some television.

Y/N paid little attention, just raised the volume until Sherlock commandeered the remote, rambling something about 'our poor neighbours' (which made him stop and wonder what the Hell had happened to him).

It was _Sherlock_ who suggested they have dinner, and _Y/N_ who picked at hers but ate very little.

They played some Operation, but Sherlock hastily packed it away because the buzzing sound was making Y/N jump every time it went off---which was _every_ time; seeing as Y/N was so immersed in her own thoughts she barely managed to get the tweezers into the cavities at all.

After Kerplunk and Pictionary pittered out also---Sherlock feeling, by this time, that he was living with some sort of ghost---he directed Y/N by the shoulders to the sofa and switched the TV back on. As an experiment, he selected a title he knew Y/N to despise, and waited for her inevitable disgust.

It never came, however, and they sat through three episodes of [something u hate] before Sherlock finally caved and changed it to something else.

It was then _Sherlock_ that tired first, and when he announced that he was going to bed, Y/N finally seemed to surface from her stupor and looked, frankly, startled.

"Why? It's only---" she jabbed her phone screen, then her eyes widened as _'1:34 am'_ glared back at her.

"I'm tired." Sherlock took a step towards his bedroom, watching Y/N's reaction carefully.

Something flashed over her eyes and she stood up. "You don't get tired. Why don't we play something?"

Brows knitted together: "We did play something. _Several_ things, and you lacked interest in all of them. And I do get tired, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight."

Y/N didn't move, but Sherlock could feel her watching him, a tension building with each centimetre of space he added as though an invisible thread was stretched between them. 

Eventually, the metaphorical thread became so taught that he drew to a stop, unable to force himself any further against it. When he turned around, Sherlock found Y/N still standing where he'd left her, the curve of her bottom lip nipped tightly between her teeth. She was gnawing on it with such force Sherlock's stomach turned, anxiety flaring at the mental image of her biting it right off.

"You should go to bed too," he said in a tone he hoped sounded friendly and nonchalant. He'd come back over to her and eased her lip from her teeth with the pad of his thumb.

She raised her gaze from the floorboards, then, blinking up at him. A strange tugging sensation blossomed between Sherlock's lungs as he looked down at Y/N's face---her body---so much smaller than him. 

He was filled with a strange desire to pull her to his chest---and maybe stroke her hair.

"Nah." A deep-set groove of worry was furrowing that space between Y/N's eyebrows, one hand fervently tugging a loose stitch at the cuff of her jumper. "I think I'll stay up a bit longer, I'm not tired yet. I might read a book. Or listen to some music." Her hand reached out to take her headphones off the coffee table, but Sherlock caught her wrist.

When Y/N gave him a quizzical expression, he returned it, just as puzzled by his own actions as she was.

He cleared his throat. It's hard to keep his voice steady when she's staring right at him like that. And when her skin is all warm against his, sending little prickling sensations up to his elbow. "You need to sleep, Y/N," Sherlock said firmly, as though he's pressing the words to her brain to make them stick.

His hand is so big it can wrap all the way around her wrist. Or her wrist is so small it gets completely swamped by his hand. 

Fear that he's entrapping her blossomed suddenly in Sherlock's torso and he released her quickly.

He missed her warmth immediately.

"I don't want to." Y/N's shoulders had wilted, because of Sherlock's uncharacteristic tone, or from the instruction itself, he wasn't sure.

It didn't even occur to him that she was disappointed he'd let her go.

Narrowing his eyes at her: "Why not?" Something about the way she's standing---cowering, all tense and frightened---is making anger prickle at the corners of Sherlock's temper like frost blossoming the damp corners of a window. Not at Y/N, but at whatever is inhibiting her. If it's a person who'd done this to her, it's probably a good thing she was keeping it to herself; Sherlock would most certainly end up in jail within the next twenty-four hours if she'd divulged so much as a name or even a brief description.

"I'm not tired."

Sherlock just quirked one eyebrow, and she frowned at him.

"Okay, well I _am_ , I just don't feel like going to bed."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Yes, but _why?"_

"I just _don't."_

"Because of whatever's bothering you?"

"Nothing's bothering me." Y/N raised one foot off the ground as if to stamp it like a petulant child, but just scratched her calf muscle with her toes instead. When she placed it back down on the floor, she made sure half of it overlapped her other foot; as though her edges are being drawn towards her centre. Y/N's body wants to curl up like an autumn leaf.

Sherlock moistened his lips, because he'd ran out of things to say. Those three words---strung together to form one obvious, blatant lie---prodded at Sherlock's heart like a three-pronged spear every time she said them. Surely she knows that if she has a problem, she can drop it at his feet and he'd fix it? That if she's tormented by a dragon, he'll slay it? That should she need him to hand over his own soul---for whatever reason---he would, without a second thought?

He sighed. "Okay, fine"

Y/N watched as Sherlock turned back to his room.

He knew she was just standing there, still, watching him leave. "I'm going to sleep. Good night."

That invisible thread was pulling harshly at him again, growing stronger with every step. It was instantly trying to drag him back to Y/N; he didn't want to leave her alone---he got the feeling he _shouldn't_ leave her alone---and yet what could he do? It's not like he could take her to bed with him, curl himself around her, guard her from whatever is making those lines sketch themselves across her forehead---

Not that he'd want to do that anyway, of course.

...

The rain had ceased, finally, but when Sherlock hunted for the moon upon drawing the bathroom blind he found the sky as blank and dark as ink. The storm had long since advanced, and was now settled directly over London, Canada Square, the Shard, and BT Tower stabbing into its underbelly as if trying to ward it off.

They were unsuccessful, however, because as Sherlock lay in bed, a tremendous light illuminated the room to such an extent he could see it through his eyelids.

He hadn't achieved sleep yet, and doubted he would for a while, his best friend's earlier expression still haunting him. That desire to find her wherever she is in the apartment and just...be with her was still just as persistent and unwavering as it had been when he'd left her in the hallway.

And the pad of his thumb remembered the touch of her lip from when he'd freed it from her teeth; the soft slip of her skin below his. He'd liked it, and he couldn't put his finger on why, but it was keeping him from achieving unconsciousness.

Glad for a distraction, and overcome with childish curiosity, Sherlock swung his legs out of bed and crossed the room quickly to the window, pulling back the curtains. He'd been counting in his head---that old trick used to estimate the distance of the storm---and barley got to three before that inevitable roll of thunder rippled its way across the city.

Sherlock grinned as it barrelled into him, the magnificence of its unbridled force still just as fascinating and exciting as the first time his parents had permitted him to stay up to watch a storm.

He caught the next flash of lightning this time; a prickly white beam slicing the horizon in two as though God herself had taken the inky fabric of the sky and ripped it violently to shreds. It left an imprint on the backs of Sherlock's eyes, a lingering mirage that he couldn't blink away.

It was awesome.

Then there was a different noise, and it hadn't come from the turbulent heavens. This one sounded more like bare feet landing rapidly on wooden boards. Someone is running in the directions of Sherlock's room.

Before he had a chance to be surprised, or even wonder how Y/N managed to descend the stairs at such a speed without ending up a bloody and splintered heap on the floor, Sherlock's door was thrown open and something collided with his middle.

"Y/N?" The force of her embrace violently shoved the word from his lungs, and he stumbled backwards before managing to right himself. Quickly, he found her shoulders and peeling her back from his body, trying to make out her face in the fuzzy light of the street lamps.

To his horror, it was written with terror.

"I lied earlier," the words weren't even words, just air, all rushed and high and riddled with panic. 

Sherlock hated it. His hands subconsciously tightened their grasp on her shoulders.

"When I said nothing's the matter."

Another burst of lightning lit up the city, and Y/N made a startled little yelp, leaping back up against Sherlock's chest. You'd think the lighting had prickled down her spine as if it were an umbrella in an empty field, judging by the way her every muscle went rigid as if electrified; but she loosened when Sherlock's arms came about her instinctively, bundling her closer.

"Well obviously," he almost growled, frustration at his helplessness nudging him closer and closer to the end of his tether. Y/N wouldn't _be_ in this state had she just told him what was wrong earlier---

He'd be lying if he claimed not to enjoy her embrace, though; her body all pressed up against his front. The contact made his chest do that warm and tingly thing again, stronger this time---but he'd think about that later.

"Can we move away from the window?" Y/N asked from his sternum, the last few shaky little words drowned in a flood of thunder.

Confused, Sherlock nodded even though she couldn't see him, and tried to lead her---still clinging to his middle---over to the bed. He planned to perch on the lip of the mattress so they could sit side by side and Y/N could give him a calm, detailed explanation of what the Hell is going on.

But she didn't move. Didn't or _couldn't_. 

He gave her a gentle nudge, then a self-consciously firmer one, but she remained as stationary and awkward as a marble statue. The only giveaway that she was alive and breathing at all was the frantic flurrying of her heart, hammering away against the front of Sherlock's pyjamas.

Seeing no other option---and too scared of Y/N's wellbeing to worry about the great taboo of unsolicited contact---Sherlock softly pried her fingers from his back. Before she could cling back onto him again, he slipped his arms underneath her legs and shoulders and began carrying her over to the mattress.

She made a small noise as her feet left the ground, her whole body being lifted suddenly up and into the air, but it was of surprise more than anything else. Both her arms soon knotted themselves around Sherlock's neck and held on tight, her nose finding refuge in his hair.

It was nice---holding her---in a strange way; it made him feel big, and tall, and...sort of...manly. Or something like that. 

When he got to the bed, he didn't want to place her down.

He did, though, and was pleasantly surprised when Y/N seemed equally reluctant to let go.

Now on the mattress, she pulled her legs up, right to her chin, shrinking herself down, and Sherlock wondered if she'd stop, or just keep going, folding in on herself like a collapsing star until she disappeared completely.

She did stop, though, when she could draw her limbs in no further, and sat there, head lowered and eyes pushed against the caps of her knees. She's so small on the wide stretch of cotton sheets, all curled up like a flower afraid to bloom. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock was on the bed with her, encasing her in his arms.

Y/N let him.

"What's wrong? Really?" He asked, partly because he wanted to know who it is he has to murder, and partly because he didn't want Y/N to have time to comment on his uncharacteristic display of affection. If she did comment---or ask him _why_ he's doing what he's doing---he has no idea how he'll answer.

_Because I don't want you to be scared?_

_Because I hoped it would be comforting?_

_Because it feels like heaven---_

Sherlock's weight made the mattress dip, and Y/N seemed to pool into it, like water drawn by gravity. She had her both legs going over one of his thighs, her body twisted enough to wrap her arms around his ribcage.

"Don't laugh at me." She's pressed so tightly to him that her words brushed his neck.

It made Sherlock's skin prickle.

He turned his head to the side, his cheek resting on the hard curve of her crown. Her hair smelled sweet, like food rather than shampoo. The scent touched the back of his throat and it made him slightly hungry. "I'd never laugh at you." He couldn't see Y/N's face, but he knew he'd elicited a raised eyebrow. He flushed, a regretful smile twitching the right corner of his mouth. "Not over anything _important_."

There was a pause, but it wasn't silent. The rain had started up again, resuming from where it had left off; just heavy, grey sheets throwing themselves against the windowpane. Sherlock could feel Y/N trying to summon some words from her chest, but they must have kept slipping through her fingers because it took a while to push out:

"I'm scared of storms."

One of Sherlock's hands had found the back of her head and had engulfed itself in her sweet-smelling hair. He'd been working up the courage to give it a little comforting stroke, and was so close to succeeding---but stopped, distracted.

"What?"

Y/N's nose is pushing against his throat, the faint scratch of gritty, impending stubble grating against the tip of it. "Storms," she managed at last. "I hate them." As if to solidify the point, a bolt of lightning lit up the room again, and she clutched onto Sherlock so tight he struggled for a moment to draw breath.

Not that he's complaining. Luckily, the bellow of thunder probably diverted Y/N's attention away from the excited little skip his heart did in answer to her embrace.

Storms? 

No stalker? No malevolent ex, no psychopathic criminal using her to get to him? 

A smirk curved Sherlock's lip, and the tone of his voice betrayed the fact. "Really?"

One of Y/N's hands at his back let him go for long enough to ball into a fist and give his shoulder blade a quick little punch. "I told you not to laugh!"

"I'm not laughing!" But he is, Y/N can feel it; she can feel everything; the shaky convulsions of his giggles, the rises and fall of rocky ridges of bone, gentle swells of muscle, latent strength. But also a little bit of soft, the tenderness of his palm cupping her skull, and that heat, that warmth of his life-force. 

Despite her irritation---Y/N nestles closer.

Without realising he's doing it, Sherlock held her tighter appreciatively. "It's just...storms? Really? I thought it was something important." He can't stop smiling. _It's nothing important._

"It _is_ important!" Y/N fought back indignantly.

"Is that why you were sitting outside Mrs Hudson's when I came home?"

Y/N blushed, and was grateful that her face was tucked securely under the detective's chin so he couldn't see. "Yeah. No windows."

Sherlock had managed to stifle his chuckles now, forcing them back down like a man trying to stuff a jack-in-the-box back into its housing. Y/N may not have been worried about a stalker, criminal, or some sort of impending doom, but that doesn't mean she isn't genuinely afraid. Her fear was real enough to convince Sherlock that her life was in jeopardy, and his new and confusing compassion returned with full force. It was so strong it overrode his bashfulness, and his right hand started tenderly stroking the back of Y/N's head. 

He felt her settle, letting her arms fall from being wrapped about his torso to his much slimmer waist. His pulse flurried, and he smiled again, for a whole different reason this time. Gently: "Why didn't you go _inside_ Mrs Hudson's?"

Another blinding bolt of lightning.

Another ground-shaking growl of thunder.

Another stretch of near-silence as Y/N reassembled her senses. 

Sherlock waited for her to find her voice, patiently; after all, he has nowhere he needs to be---besides here. _This_ is where he needs to be, with Y/N. He had resolved early on in their friendship to protect her, from anything and everything. Sure, he'd thought this would mean warding away leering drunks in dark alleyways, or fending off legitimate criminal masterminds; but if Y/N's present adversary is a bunch of moody water molecules, who is he to retract his promise? 

If anything, this makes a pleasant---and very welcome---change of pace. There are significantly fewer knife-fights, flailing fists, and trips to A&E when your opposition is astraphobia. 

And the physical contact is a charming bonus. 

"She's at her sister's."

Sherlock's brow creased. "Is she? Then who made me tea this morning?" That had been good tea. All creamy and sweet, just the way he likes it.

"That would have been me," Y/N answered flatly.

"Oh." His cheekbones flushed, for what was perhaps the millionth time this evening, and he moistened his lips. "Thank you."

"Can we get back to the point, please?"

Sherlock hummed in answer, her words coming to him as though through a fog. Why had he looked at down at cuddling with scorn and disgust? It's great. "What was the point?"

Y/N gave him a little shake, and it oscillated through him like a wave through water, his body having gone unusually slack and sated. He's slumped over her, curved lazily around and over her head like he'd been draped there, his bones softening and muscles heavy. 

Another bolt of lightning lit up the room but Y/N didn't see it; her face had found comfort at Sherlock's neck, and remained there, in the soothing darkness, focusing on nothing but his warmth, the rise and fall of his breaths, and the fuzzy old cotton of his pyjamas.

Another crash of thunder rattled the pipes in the walls, but Y/N barely heard it, the sound coming dulled and muffled because it has to travel through Sherlock's bicep before worming its way into her ears. She feels sort of like she's being crushed under his weight, constricted by his limbs, the world folding up around her.

Perfect.

"That I'm terrified of storms."

It took Sherlock a moment to remember what the question had been. "Oh, right." His eyes had closed, but he opened them now, only for one lazy second, to read the glowing numbers of his bedside clock. 

It's almost half-two in the morning. 

He wondered if Y/N would mind him falling asleep curled around her. He'd been unable to quieten his thoughts earlier, but they seem to have settled now. He's not laying down, which would have usually posed a problem, but, at present, that doesn't seem to be a bother. His hand continued to pass over Y/N's head, occasionally catching a few hundred strands of hair and threading it through the gaps in his fingers. 

He let his eyes shut again. "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"

"Make it go away."

Another low rumble rippled through Y/N's core, but this one wasn't thunder, it was Sherlock's deep, mellow chuckle. "Y/N, I believe you are confusing me with Thor."

"Not the weather!"

"Then what? I don't think I have the power to make the _fear_ go away---if that's what you mean. For that you'd probably have to see a psychologist, although I guess I could---"

"No, I just meant...can we stay here?"

Sherlock's leg---the one Y/N's own were not forming a bridge over---had been stretched out over the bed, and he dragged it in now, so it was up against her back. "Okay." 

Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

...

Yesterday, when overweight drops of rain had been leaking from the concrete mass of black clouds hovering over the city, sunshine felt like something that the inhabitants of London would never witness again. The sky appeared to have hardened---been compressed---into a heavy sheet of coal, black, stubborn, and impenetrable.

However, the next day began with feeble yet determined rays of light, the storm clouds having moved on and replaced with a few grey splotches; weighty and dismal, yet ultimately harmless. They'd been smudged over the sky like soggy lumps of paper mache, a few determined beams of sunlight already having managed to weasel their way through them just to proudly thrust themselves between everyone's curtains to rouse them much earlier than necessary. 

Only a select group of people were unaffected: those that were up already due to an alarm clock and overly-demanding work schedule, insomniacs that had never fallen asleep to begin with, and Y/N.

Y/N couldn't see the sun because she was pressed up against Sherlock's chest, facing away from the window. It just played with her hair, innocently dancing up the strands where they lay splayed across the pillow. 

The sun woke Sherlock up though, its teasing caress tickling his eyelids until he opened them to glare at that gap between the fabric of his curtains. He'd forgotten to tug them shut properly when Y/N had burst into his room last night, and now a plank of sunshine was falling on his head.

Groggily, he wondered about turning over, then realised that he could not.

Well, he _could_ , but that would mean peeling himself from Y/N's arms, and he _really_ didn't want to do that.

The storm last night had shown no sign of relenting, and he'd had watched the digits of his clock morph slowly from two-thirty, to two-forty-five, to three. 

Y/N's fear showed no sign of relenting either, the storm and her flared-up anxiety seeming to be in some kind of competition to see which could outlast the other. The only time Y/N had ceased clinging to Sherlock's chest had been once; when she'd repositioned herself to nuzzle into the other side of his neck, so she wouldn't get a crick in hers.

In an attempt to distract Y/N from what was happening outside (and, admittedly, to prevent himself from falling asleep) Sherlock had tiredly stumbled through conversation after conversation, him and Y/N passing words back and forth in the dark. 

None of the words had much meaning. They were just useless nothings; plans for tomorrow, films they had been meaning to watch, etcetera. Most of them were 'etcetera'. Sherlock couldn't remember half the things they'd talked about, but he'd enjoyed every second.

Eventually, though, their sentenced became too limp to support themselves, the syllables morphing and stumbling into one. Their bodies wilted too, like plants with saturated stems and leaves brimming with raindrops, pushing their embrace further and further down onto the bed.

Sherlock had, admittedly, encouraged it, slumping to the side and tugging Y/N with him, his body on some kind of autopilot. It knew cuddling her lying down would feel good, and it knew they needed sleep. He just let it do as it wished, and bundled Y/N up against his chest, the only part of his brain still awake rejoicing sleepily that she hadn't pushed him away.

Y/N had remained there all night, tucked neatly against his front, one of Sherlock's arms draped heavily over her waist, her's gripping onto his. 

It's there still, suffused and floppy with sleep, her head still nestled under Sherlock's chin. Each time she exhales it swirls in that little hollow between his collarbones. Perhaps seeking his warmth, Y/N pushed her head closer, her lips replacing her breath. 

Sherlock sighed contentedly. Suddenly the sun in his eyes doesn't bother him anymore.

...

For about an hour, or it could have been a week, or even a month, for all he cared, Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams slipping lucidly before his inner eye, telling vague tales of rain, and clouds, and the smell of Y/N's hair.

Then suddenly the smell was gone, and he reached out with one arm to find the other side of the bed empty.

Puzzled, and suddenly swamped with cold despite the warmth of the developing September day, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and surveyed the rest of the bed. 

That too was empty, however, the covers were rumpled---so Y/N _had_ slept there---he hadn't dreamt it. A small smile lit up his lips. 

Then it dulled and went out. 

Y/N _had_ been there, but she isn't there _now_.

He wished she was. Some pitiful, weird little wishful part of him had hoped she would be; seeing as it's a Sunday, and all. Neither of them have anywhere to be, so why not be here? 

...

Someone was rummaging through a cutlery draw in the next room, and the sound grew louder as Sherlock approached the kitchen, bleary-eyed and mid-way-through pulling a dressing gown around his shoulders. Then---as the person located whatever they had been looking for---the draw slid shut and the hob clicked as they turned a few dials.

When Sherlock rounded the corner he found Y/N breaking an egg into a pan, which crackled and spat angrily at the heat. Y/N ignored its protests and added another, dropping the shells in the open bin before kicking it shut with her foot. She turned around as Sherlock approached, perhaps hearing his bare feet on the floor, and gave him a wide smile. She, too, is still in her pyjamas.

Sherlock felt tempted to ask her to get back into bed with him.

"Good morning."

"Morning." He returned her smile, genuinely happy to see her, but too disappointed about their cuddle being cut short to beam with Y/N's level of enthusiasm.

Would she mention last night? Should _he_ mention last night? Sharing a bed, cuddling into the early hours of the morning seems like one of those things you can't just brush under the rug. Sherlock doesn't _want_ to brush it under the rug. He'd learnt something, huddled on his mattress while the rain spat from the sky and the heavens roared outside; he and Y/N had touched, and it had been pleasant---more than pleasant---and he desperately wanted to know if they'd ever do it again.

"Did you sleep okay, in the end?" He asked as casually as he could.

Y/N finished popping open a can of Heinz baked beans and tipped them into a saucepan. "Yeah, thank you."

Sherlock waited for her to say something else--- _'Your bed is comfy'_ or something like that---but she didn't, so he just reached up to disappointedly pour himself some Cornflakes.

Y/N's turned to him, then, her brows pulled together. "Don't you want any cooked breakfast?"

He blinked at her, the smell of fried eggs tickling the inside of his nose. He would, very much. "Yes please?"

"Don't sound so afraid, it's not poisoned." Y/N gave him a teasing nudge in the ribs with the point of her elbow.

Sherlock chuckled, and would have nudged her back, had she not been in the process of teasing the eggs in the pan.

They crackled unhappily as she jabbed at them with the spatula, the fringes of the whites starting to curl as they crisped.

"What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." Her cheeks went pink, and Sherlock thought it looked very pretty---not that he'd admit it, to her or even himself. " I just wanted to say thank you...for last night. For making me feel better."

"Don't mention it." _Do mention it. Let's talk about it. Help me explore those new, strange feelings you somehow manage to illicit, those prickly ones that made my skin do that tingly thing._ "Could I have another egg?"

...

Craving cheese, Sherlock had decided to swap a wedge of toast for a panini, and was presently leaning on the sandwich press to squash the bread between the grills. While he waited for them to turn a pleasant gold sort of colour, he propped himself up against the counter and regarded Y/N with mellow curiosity as she methodologically worked, grinding flakes of pepper onto this, and using the prongs of a fork to tweak that.

He could observe her for hours.

They ate in silence, but not because no one could think of anything to say. Sherlock, for one, was brimming with sentences, but he restrained them because he's not sure what would happen if they got out.

He pushed one corner of his panini into the orange swell of his remaining egg yolk, and riffled through his brain for something that wasn't along the lines of: _'I think I'm falling in love with you and I don't know what to do about it.'_

Half the panini was gone by the time he found one. "This is delicious, thank you." Tedious, frivolous, and he's pretty sure he's said it about three times already, but Y/N's face lit up all the same.

"I'm glad you like it."

Then Sherlock said, because he had to know: "So...storms?"

That new snippet of information about his flatmate had been somewhat unexpected. As someone whose only fears included obvious things like 'harm coming to those he cares about', and 'having to work a nine-to-five desk job', it had never really occurred to Sherlock that a phobia of English weather could even exist. Although, clearly it does, and Y/N appears to be affected by it to such a degree it's almost alarming. Is there a reason? Some childhood trauma, or root cause? He found his brain wandering into a state of cold, scientific fascination, and reigned it back in disgust.

Y/N's eyes remained lowered to her plate as she poked at it with her fork. "Yeah. I'm not sure why; I've been scared of them for as long as I can remember."

Confused: "We've had storms before, though, and you never said anything."

"Never ones as bad as that. And, usually, I just play music as loud as I can to drown it out. I couldn't stand it last night, though, so I came to find you." She lifted her head, then, to give Sherlock a small smile before dipping back to stare fixedly at her breakfast. "You really helped. More than you know."

Sherlock preened at the idea of Y/N seeing him as some kind of protector. "I'll always help. With anything." That had sounded stupid, and he felt the back of his neck heat, but Y/N looked relieved.

"Are you sure? I _did_ keep you up for most of the night."

"I didn't mind, I enjoyed it." _Oops._ "Not, you know, you being scared---I _hated_ that, all of it---but spending the night---" _that sounds wrong_ "---being with you---" _also wrong_ "I liked---" _Just shut up---_

All Sherlock's sentences were rushing free at once, gumming up his tongue and it felt like the engines were dropping off a plane one by one and now he's plummeting from the sky---

"What I meant was," he began again, "I enjoyed hanging out with you." The words 'hanging out' felt alien in his posh-British-boy mouth, and his voice caught a little on the 'H', the syllable tumbling a few times in an embarrassing stutter. 

But at least this time he hadn't insinuated that they'd had sex.

Would he have liked to have had...?

Sherlock shut _that_ thought out before it could even fully develop. He took a sip of his water, kind of wishing he could fall into it and drown. _What's happening to me?_

Y/N was watching him like he was a toy that had run out of batteries and was now sputtering amusing nonsense. A small smile twitched at the corner of her lip---at least he hasn't made her uncomfortable.

He's made her _smile_ , which is almost worth losing the little bits that have crumbled off his dignity.

"I enjoyed it too." She waved a hand. "You know, besides being scared out of my skin."

Sherlock let himself chuckle, not at her comment; just to release some of the nervous energy that was buzzing about his ribcage like a swarm of bees had decided to make a nest between his lungs.

"Honestly," Y/N said with no particular tone, "I'm surprised you let me stay."

Sherlock's brow knitted together. That's how she sees him? With a heart so chilly he'd push her away when she needs him most? "What do you mean?" he asked, admittedly a little hurt.

Y/N must have picked up on his tone, and continued carefully, not meeting his piercing grey eyes: "Well, you're not really one for snuggling and pampering, are you?"

Indignantly: "Am I not?" After all, how could he know if he is or isn't if no one has ever given him the opportunity to find out? "Just because someone is never offered something, that doesn't mean they don't want it---"

"What?" Y/N's words were so saturated with disbelief they were _dripping_ : "So you're saying you _liked_ having to put up with me clinging to you all night?"

Something about her tone, her _assumptions_ , touched an old wound forged by years of societal neglect, and Sherlock found himself slightly nettled. "I am human, Y/N, I'm not immune to cuddles from a pretty girl."

"You think I'm pretty?"

Oh. 

A hot flush turned the tips of Sherlock's ears as red as his ketchup. "That's not the point, the point is---" What is the point? Even if he can somehow convince Y/N that he is, in fact, interested in casual physical contact, affection---even, maybe, a romantic relationship---there's no way she'd ever indulge him. "Everyone assumes I don't like affection, and I have no idea _why_ \---I do it all the time."

There was a moment where the pace between Y/N's eyebrows furrowed; her mind perhaps filling with all the occasions she had, indeed, seen Sherlock gladly shake a stranger's hand, press a kiss to Mrs Hudson's forehead, his mother's cheek, allowed Lestrade to wrestle him into a fatherly bear-hug.

He has a point.

"Huh," was all she said, which Sherlock found rather anticlimactic.

Moodily, he dragged a tomato through the sauce of his baked beans. He's still tired, his body cranky and unused to being roused earlier than usual. Maybe when he's eaten he'll flop back into bed and nap until noon. "Is that why you snuck away so early? Because you thought I'd be repulsedby your human sentimentality?"

Why is this upsetting him so much? So what if Y/N is under the impression he doesn't like to be touched? All he'll be missing out on is...tight hugs when he returns home safe from a dangerous case, play-wrestling over the last segment of Chocolate Orange...having her hold his arm so they don't get separated in crowds...

"No," Y/N answered back, affronted, thus matching his defensiveness. "I didn't _sneak_ away, I gave you space because I'd already imposed enough."

"Y/N, having you in my bed could never be an imposition."

Silence crashed into the room like a train.

How can lack of something carry more force than so many somethings? How can _no_ sound suffocate, stifle, charge a room with energy more than a sound ever could? Why is silence so loud?

For what must have been three years, no one moved. It was as if something had just blown up in the next room and neither Y/N nor Sherlock dared to go assess the damage.

Y/N's jaw had ceased chewing, her fork suspended halfway between the table and her mouth.

The bite of cheesy bread Sherlock had just swallowed halted somewhere in his oesophagus.

It's amazing how quickly and efficiently the brain can conduct itself in a time of crisis. As soon as the words left Sherlock's mouth, his mind clicked into action as though a panic button had been pressed, thoughts whizzing about, crackling down neurons like static through a cable. Every metaphorical cog in his head churned at a million miles a second to produce, perfect, and execute the perfect plan of action.

And that plan was:

Run.

"Thanks for breakfast," Sherlock threw the words down before Y/N like a man tossing a tip onto a table as he dashes out of a restaurant. Perhaps if he buries his faux pas under more words, Y/N will forget about it? "Really, it was delicious." Hurriedly, he stuffed the rest of his meal---just a small heap of baked beans---into his mouth and snatched up the remainder of his panini, and pushed his chair away from the table.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to get dressed."

...

Sherlock felt Y/N's eyes boring into the back of his head as though trying to understand what the Hell was going on inside it as he scurried to the bathroom. Can a six-foot-tall man 'scurry'? He somehow managed to, and only relaxed when he slid the lock to 'occupied'. Well, as relaxed as you _can_ be when you'd just...whatever he'd done.

He didn't really know _what_ he'd done, but he'd done something. He guesses he'll find out the exact nature of it when he next has to confront Y/N.

'Fucked it up', that's probably what he'd done; 'it' being Y/N's trust in him. Tipped that beautiful balance, knocked into and blown down the house of cards that is their friendship. He's not sure what's worse; Y/N seeing him as a reptilian man with a heart of flint, or Y/N seeing him as the opposite; a needy, desperate, touch-starved pervert.

Maybe he _should_ have sent her back to her own room last night.

For a while now, Sherlock has been avoiding a certain topic. He likes Y/N touching him, that's impossible to ignore. He'd just never let himself consider _why_. Every time so much as a casual daydream on the subject drifted by, he's reacted with blind panic; snatching it from his consciousness, stuffing it into a box and banishing it to the back of his brain.

However, now, it seems he's worked himself into a position where he has no choice but to open up all those boxes and closely examine the contents. One of them had clearly fractured without his knowing, the thought---nay, _desire_ \---breaking free, and causing him to say something quite inappropriate to his female flatmate.

His rather... _perfect_ female flatmate. Perfect for what?

Cautiously (and somewhat unnecessarily), Sherlock let his brain wander, him following with tentative steps, nervously behind. He knew where it would take him, but he had to be sure---he had to know his theory was correct before he could begin deciding what to do next.

Obviously---and predictably---Sherlock's mind led him to _'I wish Y/N was in the shower with me',_ along with several wildly pleasing and inappropriate mental images.

He hurriedly shoved the shower tap down to 'cold'.

Why did he have to be such a _man?_ So his flatmate is pretty and funny and clever---why couldn't his body just appreciate those things as her _friend_ rather than immediately labelling her as an ideal mate? Y/N just so much as _brushes_ his arm, and rather than simply reacting with a light spattering of oxytocin, Sherlock's stupid, treacherous biology gets all over-excited and utterly swamps itself, along with a bucks-load of serotonin and dopamine and god knows what else.

Although these regular metaphorical dips in seas of happy-chemicals seem to have done wonders to Sherlock's anxiety levels, mood, and general happiness, it's still _wrong..._ isn't it?

...

Showering in frigid temperatures helped, at least in part, to cleanse away at least some of that gooey, sticky remorse.

Sherlock had snapped at Y/N earlier, too, he's now realising in hindsight. They'd been snuggled up in bed together just an hour ago, and now---

Now what?

Sherlock doesn't know, so he just remained there, under the stream of water, letting it fill his ears and run over his closed eyes until the cold water went from chewing hungrily at his body heat to just washing over him, there being nothing left to take.

Eventually---and fearing the figure on his water bill---he turned off the tap, stepped onto the bathmat, and began towelling himself dry. He took his time shaving and brushing his teeth and pulling his pyjamas back on---it's not that he was procrastinating, not at all. He just needs time to come up with an idea of what to do next.

Step One should be: Give Y/N space. This works nicely with Sherlock's earlier plan of laying in until noon. He can hole himself up in his room for the rest of the day, if need be.

Step Two should be: 'Apologise'. Goodness knows what damage that little slip of the tongue has probably inflicted upon Y/N's trust in him. In his apology, he should stress that he expects absolutely nothing from Y/N, and that his crush is one-hundred per cent _his_ crush, and thus his problem to deal with.

Step Three would be difficult, and would take patience, effort, and dedication: Rebuilding the bond he'd accidentally shattered. Hopefully, with time, _Y/N_ will forget about the fact that her best friend has less-than-platonic feelings for her, and _he_ will learn to stop his cheekbones going pink whenever she smiles at him.

Eventually, Sherlock's well of things-to-do-that-do-not-involve-leaving-the-bathroom came up dry, and he was forced to begin Step One.

Gingerly, he slid back the lock, checked for Y/Ns, and, finding the coast clear, crept to his room.

...

Shoulders sagging as the door clicked shut behind him, Sherlock gravitated to his bed and flopped onto it. He doubts he'll be able to nap now, but shimmying back under the covers and tugging them up to his ears had a pleasant feel to it; like the world was eating him. 

Yes, this could work. He'll stay here for a couple of hours, maybe a year, and try to not think about the fact that his pillows smell of Y/N's hair.

...

Sherlock had been lying there for barely two and a half minutes before the door opened.

He knew it was Y/N, because he recognised the rhythm of her footsteps as she crossed over to the bed. They made a soft sound on the carpet---as if they're socked---she must have gotten dressed.

Sherlock waited for her to say something, his eyes shut and facing the wall. Without meaning to, he'd pretend to be asleep. Perhaps it's better that way, he can guess Y/N's mood by how she chooses to wake him. He'll put on a show while he adjusts himself accordingly---yawning, stretching, pretending to wake blearily from a nap, and then...?

He didn't need to contemplate this, however, because something unexpected happened; the mattress dipped slightly, as Y/N climbed onto the bed.

Before Sherlock could assemble his bearings, she pulled off his duvet and took his shoulders.

Bewildered, yet, admittedly intrigued, he let her push him over onto his back, and watched---his eyes being very much open now---as she put one knee over him.

His breath caught as Y/N straddled his middle. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't run away again."

"I didn't run away, I was having a shower," he retaliated defensively, but it was a lie and they both knew it.

It made the corner of Y/N's lip twitch into a smile, which looked out of place in her otherwise slightly nervous expression. She isn't on his hips---which, for his dignity's sake, Sherlock is glad for---she's a little further up than that, mostly on his stomach. It's not a bad feeling, quite the contrary; it's good. _Very_ good. _Too_ good.

Like a slow computer, his brain finally processed her words. "Why would I run away?" Is she going to give him a _reason_ to run away?

"Because I want to try something, but every time we get close to the subject you freak out."

"What subject?"

"Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Try something."

Every attempt Sherlock made at guessing _what_ she wants to try drew up a disappointing blank. Maybe because this situation is most unusual---their current position utterly foreign and new---so who knows how it will play out. Or maybe _because_ _of_ their current position; having Y/N this close, _on top of him,_ is making it incredibly difficult for Sherlock to focus on anything else.

He nodded anyway.

Y/N's throat bobbed as she swallowed, and, tentatively, she extended one hand.

Sherlock watched it curiously. He feels he should---he _wants_ to---do something with his own hands, but he isn't sure what, so he just left them on the covers.

Y/N's palm has settled on his chest, in the centre of it. Then, seeing as he didn't ask her to stop, she slowly let her fingers splay themselves across his sternum.

That prickling thing happened immediately; a burst of light between Sherlock's lungs; tongues of fire lapping at the underside of his ribs, tickling them. He bet Y/N can feel his heart fluttering away below his pyjama top. The tips of his ears went pink, contrasting heavily with his white pillowcase and alabaster skin.

Of course Y/N saw, her eyes were flicking over his face. They'd narrowed as if in incredulity, and she said carefully: "...You meant it. Didn't you?"

"Meant what?" He exhaled as she removed her hand from his chest, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in. It's easier to pay attention to what she's saying when she's not caressing him. He missed the warmth of it, though. _Please put it back._

"That you liked it. Sharing a bed with me. And that you think I'm pretty."

There's no point in denying it, and definitely no way he can do so convincingly, so Sherlock just nodded again. He _had_ meant it, he _still_ means it; even now as Y/N is trapping him, as he's unsure of what exactly is going on; he's still just happy to have her on his bed.

And, if he's completely honest with himself, he actually likes the trapping.

"I think you're pretty too."

Sherlock's brain did something peculiar, then, a sort of double-take, as if there had been a glitch in the matrix.

Y/N's cheeks are red. "Or handsome. Attractive. Whatever."

Yes, he had heard her right. And her pupils are all big, swelled wells of ink that don't seem to be able to settle on anything. They keep finding Sherlock's eyes, then darting away, as if startled by the transparency of them, the sharpness of his gaze.

It's very concentrated right now, as though his perception is a camera lens brought into focus. He's paying attention all of a sudden, on full alert---despite the rather distracting, pleasing pressure of a pretty woman straddling his waist.

The corner of his lip twitched. Sceptically: "You do?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of silence, heavy and laden with thought and tension.

Then, his mouth curving with amusement at her little squeak of surprise, Sherlock took Y/N's shoulders and pushed her down onto the bed.

She looked up at him from the mattress, and _he's_ crouched over _her_ now, smiling down at her wolfishly---although that part is completely by accident.

Sherlock isn't resting his full weight on her---for several reasons. One of them is because she looks so utterly small underneath him, her waist fitting easily between his thighs, his broad hands smothering the knotted bones of her shoulders. He remembered how it had felt to clutch her little body to his chest last night, the tiny, frantic beating of her heart---

And suddenly became overly conscious of intimidating her. Hastily, he released her shoulders.

Her wrists are either side of her head, and he takes them instead, softly, gently, tenderly. Hopefully, his latent strength, his hesitation, will show Y/N he's is only playing.

She doesn't seem to mind either way. She hasn't tried to wriggle free, or pushed him off her, even though he's keeping himself pliable enough for her to do so. She's just gone the colour of candyfloss, her lips parted to breathe.

Sherlock resolved not to look at her lower face. Y/N's appealing little mouth seems to have an annoying habit of not only threatening his composure, but shattering it, shooting it dead and dancing on its grave. One glance would make interrogating her with any conviction near-impossible. "What are you doing?" He asked. " _Really?"_

What _is_ she doing? Coming into his room, climbing on top of him and calling him pretty? What kind of game is this, and is he playing it right?

Y/N took a second to speak, for some reason, and when she did it was breathy.

Inexperienced-and-very-much-in-love Sherlock will need to get off her and wrap his duvet around his waist if she doesn't stop doing things like that.

"I'm trying to tell you...that I didn't mind. What you said earlier."

There was another one of those silent stretches, but this time Sherlock's eyebrows weren't raised in pleasant surprise, they were pulled together tight in puzzlement.

Then he laughed, an almost bitter, single-syllable bark of irony.

Y/N frowned, but he didn't notice.

Seeping with disbelief: "Oh, really?"

"Yes."

"So---you wouldn't mind if I did this?" Before his good-judgment had time to catch up, Sherlock dipped his head and pressed a kiss to Y/N's neck.

As soon as his lips touched to Y/N's skin they both tensed up.

He'd been teasing her, really. It was quick and fleeting; a chaste press. He'd just been messing around, jesting, because she can't possibly mean---

Can she?

But the teasing had ended as soon as he'd gotten close enough to feel the feathery tendrils of her body heat caressing his cheek; as soon as her hair brushed the tip of his nose, her scent filling and fogging up his head. Sherlock's intentions may have been light-hearted, but there was nothing light-hearted about the way sensation pooled in the pit of his stomach, nothing funny about Y/N's gasp of surprise, audible and delicious and addicting.

It was as if a current had passed through the both of them, like the lightning that had speared the sky last night, bold, insistent darts of...something.

For Sherlock, that something had been instant pleasure.

However, Y/N is still breathing a little heavily below him, watching him with wide eyes, and he worried, for one heart-stopping moment, whether he's the only one enjoying himself.

Sherlock drew back immediately, hot and uncomfortable regret searing his conscience. He opened his mouth---still prickling and tingling---to fervently apologise for taking it too far, but Y/N beat him to it, her words pushing his own back down his throat:

"No." She moistened her lips, leaving them all glossy and shiny. "I wouldn't mind."

What?

Sherlock blinked at her. He's aching for close contact now--- _aching_. He's tasted it, gotten an idea of what it would be like to mouth at Y/N's skin, caress her, draw out little sounds from her---and---by the sound of it...his wishes might actually be heeded.

Maybe he did manage to nap, and all this is a dream? That wouldn't be surprising, given some of the trips his unconscious brain has led him on recently. This is, pretty much---roughly---how they go.

"Really?" He couldn't hide that note of doubtful scepticism, the slight rise in tone that gave away the fact that he doesn't really believe her.

"Yes. I want you to." Her chest is rising and falling quickly, still, but she dared to meet his eyes, now. They roamed over his face, probably to read it as she asked: "Do you...do _you_ want to? Kiss me again, I mean."

The question was utterly unnecessary. The answer is obvious and plain as day and actually straddling her middle, blushing and clearly interested.

Sherlock smirked. "Among other things." It had slipped out all on its own, the line sleek and smooth, sliding through his fingers. He nearly tried to catch it again; retract it---

But the way Y/N's face blossomed scarlet was positively delightful; so he left it be.

She's serious? Isn't she?

Y/N had to find her voice before she could speak.

Sherlock would have filled the silence, but he wasn't sure what he could fill it with. He decided his best course of action would just to wait, and see how Y/N will react to his...flirtations? Had he been flirting? He didn't even know he knew how to do that.

He's still not looking at her mouth, he doesn't dare, but prolonged eye contact is beginning to take its toll, little needling sensations building in intensity at the back of his brain. He can't find anywhere else to settle his gaze, though.

Her hair? But that's all spread over his pillow, and has almost the same effect as peeking at her lips.

Her nose? Too close to her mouth.

Her chest, her exposed collarbones? Flowing up and down with her quickened breaths---

Why is Y/N so hard to look at? Most of her is forbidden, or too exciting, or just so intense he can feel the temperature of his blood rising with every beat of his heart. She's not just his friend, she's a woman, and every fibre of his being knows that and is both titillated and afraid of the fact. She absorbs photons and throws them back brighter, better, improved. It's like looking at the sun; he's drawn to its warmth and beauty, but after barely a second he has to turn away, hot and burning.

"Okay."

Sherlock's train of thought came to a very rough and abrupt halt.

Y/N's nervousness is different from her nervousness yesterday---her body is not brittle with terror this time, but pliant and yielding between Sherlock's legs. Welcoming, like arms spread wide, all shy smiles and eyes full of sparks. Not skittish; excited. Not scared; exhilarated. She...really does think he's attractive? She wants him to kiss her, she wants him to---

"What?" he'd said it like he was appalled, and Y/N must have grabbed the wrong end of the metaphorical stick because she scowled and said defensively:

"Don't pretend you were joking, I felt your pulse when I put my hand---"

"No," Sherlock cut her off, his mouth seemingly unable to stop smiling. "I'm just..." Astounded? Staggered? In a state of absolute and utter joy? "Finding it hard to believe." He's grinning, he can feel it splitting his face in two. Bashfully: "That you...want me."

Y/N ceased her attack immediately, her face softening. She's looking at him differently. Well, it's the same way she's always looked at him, but something has changed---something is missing.

Restraints. She's looking at him and not holding back, and the unbridled fondness is making it difficult for him to breathe. "I _do_ want you."

It's a wonder Sherlock is managing to stay upright. Every atom of his being is telling him to lean down, catch Y/N's lips with his own, then do something with his tongue until she groans into his mouth.

He didn't though. Slowly, and with a shy smile ghosting his whole face, he released one of Y/N's wrists. The echo of her heartbeat clung to his skin as he tenderly cupped her cheek, the soft line of her jaw nestled in his palm. He felt Y/N lean into it.

She had meant it.

All of it.

Tentatively, Sherlock bent his head until his nose brushed the tender skin of her neck. He knows he's probably drowning her in need, in his desperation for contact, for love, and he paused, giving her one last chance to change her mind.

But she didn't.

So he kissed her.

In the same place he'd kissed her before, but for longer, this time, lingering there, long enough to feel her pulse point, just because he could. 

_Gorgeous_.

Of its own accord, his hand still clasping her wrist slid languidly upwards, until it met with her palm, which he held, interlacing their fingers.

Y/N gripped back, her little hand engulfed, and, encouraged, Sherlock moved his lips further up the alluring collum of her throat, following the stretch of muscle to just below her ear. She gasped, a quick little inhale of air, and Sherlock's lips curved as he doubled back on himself, wanting to find that spot again. He did, and mouthed at it---

Then he felt something at the side of his face.

Y/N's hand had gravitated to his cheek. She waited, perhaps silently asking for permission.

Does she _still_ think he's averse to physical affection? Even after his rant at breakfast, she's _still_ under the impression that she has to _ask_ to touch him?

She _never_ has to ask to touch him.

He tried to show her that he wants it by nudging his cheekbone into her palm, as she had done when _he'd_ cupped _her_ face moments before. This seemed to be all the incentive Y/N needed, because she supported him for a moment, that ridge of bone, then---to his utter delight---pushed her hand up into his hair.

Sherlock kissed her more firmly, gratefully. The more he kissed her, the more Y/N's fingers submerged themselves in the thick coils, so, naturally, he didn't stop. He can't stop, he doesn't _want_ to stop. 

The strands of his hair slipped through the gaps between Y/N's digits as she sort of combed them through his curls. They got caught, they entangled, they tugged, and Sherlock's lips parted wetly, a shaky sigh breaking against Y/N's ear.

Y/N noticed. She must have done. She must have felt him go almost rigid in surprise at his own reaction, then slacken loosely against her at the pleasantness of it, his head having to rest against the pillow. Barley giving him time to recover, she did it again, clutching onto him harder this time.

Sherlock groaned.

He hadn't meant to. And it was so loud, so deep they both felt it vibrating the springs of the mattress. Immediately embarrassed, he paused to catch his breath, expecting Y/N to...laugh at him? Or...or something.

She just did it again, stroke and tug, getting another bitten down sound brushing against her neck.

Without his knowing, Sherlock had stretched out his legs and settled himself over her front, all along the length of her pretty little body. Her legs encircled his hips and he made that groaning sound again as he was pulled down and onto her, properly, full weight and all. The more he kisses her the more she clings to him, the more she tugs at his hair, the more she utters those little gasps he's become so bafflingly fond of. 

Braver, now, he extended his trail, roaming over her forehead and down her cheeks. He's mostly feeling his way over her face, following a path that's more instinctual than pre-planned, setting alight each nerve cell individually, giving every centimetre equal attention. 

His trail led him to Y/N's lips, where he came to a respectful halt, and drew back enough to gauge her expression.

Her eyes had fluttered open, flicking between Sherlock's now-mostly-black pupils and his chin. She's flushed, her breaths keep flowering on his lower face, sweet like peppermint toothpaste, coming to him through a grin.

He can't stand it anymore---that tugging sensation in his belly---and before he knew what he was doing, he kissed her.

Properly.

On the mouth, giving her bottom lip a quick little suck before drawing back, startled.

It had felt... _amazing._

Like he'd burst into flame all at once, that fire in his chest overtaking his entire body, igniting nerves that he never knew were there.

Beaming, he did it again, eagerly, for longer. He caught her bottom lip, pulled away, caught the top; curiously, inquisitive, again, and again.

Then Y/N's jaw had fallen open and he could _taste_ her---

A moan pushed it's way up from his lungs, and he didn't pull away fast enough, the sound vibrating straight into Y/N's mouth and he went crimson.

 _But she moaned back_ and it was the most delectable sound Sherlock had ever heard.

"Y/N," he gasped, forehead resting against hers, because his bones have turned to honey. He's worried he's crushing her, but he wouldn't be able to right himself if he tried; muscles limp and drowning in whatever this is. "I want you too."

She pulled him down for another kiss, and he shuddered as her tongue brushed his lips. Of their own accord, his body somehow knowing what to do, they parted, and she touched her tongue to his.

Sherlock gave a plaintive, helpless little moan.

She broke the kiss again, perhaps afraid he'd hyperventilate. "Sherlock."

Someone's heart is flurrying at an alarming pace where their chests are pressed tight together, but Sherlock isn't sure whether it's his or Y/N's. Probably his. His name in that tone, in _Y/N's_ voice, skittered up his spine and he was so distracted it took him a moment to answer.

"Hm?"

"Do you want to get back in the bed with me?"


End file.
